Catch Me
by cherryblossom1999
Summary: Dean is hurt. Sam is hurt (well, emotionally). Sam is still in Stanford. Shenanigans ensue. Warnings: language, mentions of rape, torture, abuse.


It was warm.

It was too warm- he was burning up, fire burning hot and blazing a trail inside of him, so much he couldn't see what was in front of him. Everything was hazy, there was carpet rolled out in front of him, walls enclosing him on both sides, and he could barely hear the loud buzz of voices drifting in and out of his hearing. Someone brushed past him, and he stumbled, nearly falling onto one knee, reaching out blindly in front of him for balance, some semblance of it. Sammy. Sammy, where was he?

He leant against the wall, breathing heavily, his heart thumping irregularly in his chest, so loudly he felt tempted to hold it still, just to hear silence. There was pain – pain everywhere, his chest- _broken ribs_, his delusional mind supplied helpfully, and he clutched at the wall again with red-stained fingers.

"….alright?" someone was asking him, and he closed his eyes against the blur, only one thought in his mind, _find Sammy. _

"Hey, hey man, are you okay? You look like crap, do you need the nurse?" he heard dimly, and the words vibrated around him like an echo. He grunted in pain as he slumped to the floor, white hot agony flaring as his legs crumbled like paper underneath him. His eyes opened briefly, and he saw a crowd of people around him, voices rising and falling, shouting out in anxiety.

"Oh shit, this guy's hurt, man-"

"Stop touching him-"  
"Call the ambulance, hurry up-"

"Who _is _he, he's bleeding out,"

"Shit, shit, shit-"

It was too much, everything was too much, pain and noise and the _thoughts, _swarming, buzzing, Sam, where was _Sam, _he thought he'd be here, it _hurt_, and it was too much, way, way, too much, and fuck, he almost welcomed the nothingness when it came.

"Oh, come on," Sam laughed, glancing over at his roommate. James shrugged, blonde hair falling over his eyes before he flashed Sam a roguish grin. Sam was briefly reminded of a similar grin, similar hair colour, the word '_bitch'_, muttered in joking tones, before he pushed the memory firmly away, instead tuning in on the passionate speech James was now delivering.

"It was totally sick, man, I mean, I'm all in for kinky stuff, you know that-"  
"Yes, I do," Sam interrupted dryly. "I'm pretty sure the photos on your phone proved that."

"Shut up, you promised to never speak of that again," James said, and continued without missing a beat, "but this chick, she was full on, I mean, normally when I pull out the handcuffs the girls freak, but Sarah-"

"Susan."

"Whatever, man, so I showed her these cuffs, right, like I was expecting her to turn tail and run, but she just pulled out her own freakin' pair, I mean who does that? Where did she even get handcuffs?"  
"Where did you get yours?" Sam asked curiously, looking up from his textbook. James shrugged, swivelling on his chair.

"Some amazing red head from like, a year ago. She was _hot_."

Sam scoffed, opening his mouth to reply, but the words died in my throat as the door to their room banged open.

"Mason?" he asked, standing up in alarm. Mason was standing in the doorway, his face flushed and panicked, and –

"Mason, is that _blood_?" Sam asked in shock, his heart thudding at the sight of red staining his friend's shirt. Hesla hadn't expected something like this here, in _Stanford, _thought he'd left it all behind a long time ago, and he moved quickly now, old hidden instincts rising back up to the surface. "Mason, are you okay? Were you attacked? James, call 911, hurry up-"

"No, no, it's not my blood," Mason stuttered, panting, and Sam realised he'd been running, looked at the pattern of the blood splattered on his shirt and realised it wasn't his right after Mason said it. "And someone's called 911, anyway, but they said it might be a while before the ambulance gets here, something about a massive pile up on the highway, so we're trying to take the guy to the nurse, but he keeps screaming man, we can't hold him down."

"Who?" Sam asked, already moving out into the corridor. Stuff like this rarely happened, but a lot of the time, people came to him. It happened after he'd fixed up a guy with a broken leg, had it splinted and ready for the medics when they arrived, and word had gotten around that Sam was some sort of emergency contact for anyone hurt. It wasn't something he particularly liked, but the nurse was old, and smelled really gross, and had a massive boil under her eye and no one really liked her, and Sam had felt so _lost _after leaving his family, so he put his talents to use.

He was jogging now, following the cacophony of voices that were panicked, knew vaguely that James was following behind him and Mason. Mason was keeping up with him step by step, and yet he managed to keep his voice steady as he replied.

"I don't know, some random dude. Blonde hair, green eyes, looks like hell. No one knows him."

They skidded around the corner, reaching a growing group of people that were milling around anxiously, so tightly packed together it was impossible to see the hurt figure. Sam could hear the yelling, authority-laced voices of the professors, trying unsuccessfully to disperse the crowd.

An uncomfortable feeling was pushing in Sam's gut, the instinct that something was so very wrong. Ignoring the voices of James and Mason, he pushed past everyone, trying to get a glimpse of who was hurt.

He spotted blonde, dirty hair

_Didn't know I had a baby sister, Sammy, better cut your princess hair – _

Blood, spilling scarlet on the carpet

_I'm fine, Sam, back off – _

_You're not fine! You need stitches-_

A worn, brown leather jacket

_What the hell is wrong with you?! What, can't tell Dad when to back the hell off? Why do you have to worship the guy, huh? Just follow him around everywhere like a good little soldier? You have his car, you have his jacket, his tapes. I'm not you, I can't live this life, Dean! _

Dean.

Sam was frozen, his feet planted unmoving on the ground. Dimly, he heard James' voice, rising over the crowd. "Sam? Sam, do you know this guy?"

"Yeah," he replied faintly. "Yeah, he's my brother."

Everything went by in a massive blur, the moments that just flew by and some that stood still. He could vaguely remember crouching over his brother's body ("Don't touch him!"), the worried, shocked look on James' face, the flurry of white lab coats and the horrible, anxious feeling in the waiting room that he had never wanted to experience again.

"Broken ribs," she had said, a young nurse with blue eyes and brown hair and a horrible look of pity that she tried unsuccessfully to disguise. "Internal bleeding, massive bruising, especially around the wrists and ankles, probably a concussion, stab wound to the upper thigh, starvation, repeated…" here, she had paused and stuttered a little. "Repeated sexual assault."

After that, everything was another blur.

He had hated it – hated that pity, wanting to scream irrationally at her, say that it wasn't him whom she needed to give her attention to, what about his brother, what about _Dean? _He had let this happen to him, he hadn't been there to save him, and he was mortified at himself. How long, he wondered, had Dean been tied up, held hostage? He had been able to feel the ribs on his brother, feel the skin stretched tight right over bone. He had been able to wrap his fingers around Dean's wrist with room still left over.

He was enraged – enraged with John, who was probably off hunting some fucking ghost instead of looking after his son, enraged with Dean, who had let this happen to himself, who had probably been too pride to ask for help, who had come into Sam's sheltered new life and smashed down the barrier that Sam had built so painstakingly carefully. And then he was mad at himself, because he knew it wasn't Dean's fault.

"What the _hell, _Dean," he muttered out loud, and put his head in his hands.

He was sitting awkwardly on the uncomfortable hospital chair, as he had been for the past few hours. Nurses had come and gone, giving him awkward glances of sympathy before leaving the room. He'd had several missed calls from his friends, but he couldn't bear the thought of talking to them right now, visualising the questions they would ask, how they would wonder how Sam could appear to care so much about his brother when he'd never mentioned him before. It was strange – how quickly his old life and his new had merged, road trips and greasy diners mixed in with college professors and stiff ties.

His side vibrated, and Sam glanced down, irritated. If it was James _again…_

It was Bobby.  
Sam didn't hesitate. For the first time in over a year, he picked up the phone.

"Bobby?" he asked, and hated how young he sounded. On the other side, there was a long pause.

"You're a fucking idgit," Bobby said, and god, Sam laughed. He laughed until he realised that he was dripping tears onto the floor.

"Hey, Bobby," he croaked out. "It's been a while."  
"And whose fault is that?" Bobby replied, and Sam would have flinched, but the older man's voice was kind. He didn't know if that was worse, but all the same, fresh tears welled up behind his eyelids.

"How are you, son?" he asked, and Sam broke.

He was crying, bawling, tears cascading like the floodgates had opened and he was hiccupping so loudly he was nearly sure he would wake Dean up, only Dean was lying there, pale and limp and unconscious, and his shoulders were shaking hard. Bobby said nothing on the other end, just waited in silence as Sam sobbed into the phone, cried for the first time in a very long time.

"Dean," he coughed into the phone, finally. "Dean, he's…"

"Is he with you?" Bobby asked sharply, worry coating his words rough. "Is he okay?"  
"We're in the hospital, Bobby," Sam rambled. "He's in the hospital, and he's hurt, he's hurt bad."

There was a long, drawn-out sigh from Bobby's end, and Sam could picture how Bobby looked right now, probably pacing all round his room, cap on his head and beer in his hand. "How hurt?" Bobby asked, and Sam held back another wave of fresh tears.

He told Bobby about the injuries, about how he'd found him, bleeding out in the dorm corridor, how he'd flinched and panicked when Sam had reached out, lifted Dean up like he was the older brother, carried him in his arms as if he weighed nothing. Bobby didn't say a word, just inhaled sharply when Sam told him about the true extent of the torture Dean had been subjected to.

"And now, he's just lying there, Bobby, and I haven't seen him in over a year, and God, where the hell is Dad?"

The question slipped out, and Sam knew it had been building up for so long. Where the hell had his Dad been, what had he been doing, how could he have let this happen at all? Had he left Dean, had Dean left him? Where was he now, and why hadn't he called?

"I don't know, Sam," Bobby answered, and Sam groaned, running a hand through his hair. "He called me a week ago, was all in a panic about how Dean was missing. I don't know where John is, Sam, but I know what happened to your brother."

"What?" There was feeling of trepidation to Sam now. He needed to know, he had to know, but he didn't want to. He was scared to.

Bobby sighed again, and Sam recognized the sound, welcomed it after going so long without hearing it.

"What happened, Bobby?"

"What else do you think, ya idgit?" the man snapped. "He was protecting your overgrown ass, that's what."

Sam slumped, confusion warring with resignation. "What?" he asked again.

"The funny thing is," Bobby continued, "Wasn't even something supernatural that did whatever it did to your brother. Just a man. You ever heard of Judas?"  
"Judas?" Sam repeated, brow furrowing. "As in, the guy who betrayed Jesus?"

"Yes and no. A new serial killer who's been moping around now, for the past month. He's been taking victims, keeping 'em for around a week, then killing them and dumping them all over the country. He's been moving around, getting closer and closer to where you are. Dean doesn't usually hunt people, you know that, but you fit this guy's M.O. Brown hair, hazel eyes, that's the type he usually goes for. Told your daddy he was hunting some poltergeist in Minnesota, went running off to hunt this guy down. Obviously succeeded, since he's still alive, but the guy had him first."

Sam groaned, resting his head on Dean's hospital bed, feeling a wave of weariness envelop him. "Fuck, Dean."

"Sorry, Sammy. Don't swing that way," he heard, and snapped his head back up, snapping the phone shut and hearing an indignant squawk from the other end. Dean's eyes grinned back at him, tired but alive, tired but _conscious_.

"Heya, Sammy."


End file.
